This story, like most that I write, are born of my homesickness for the South. I was reared in a world steeped in history, ghosts, and troubled pasts. The dead and gone in the South are rarely either-- the past and the present weave together creating a complicated, bittersweet reality.

Passing through historic cemeteries, wandering through 18th and 19th century homes, seeing the remnants of lives so often cut short through disease, war, slavery, poverty, childbirth, I always wonder what did they leave undone? How would the present be different if they’d lived even one more day? Questions I started asking of my own father when he died. This story is a look at what might’ve been and what could be-- even once the life is over.